


Dancing in the Dark

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, fixing it with fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-05-01 19:05:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19183840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: “Hey, old man.”Eliot smiles softly to himself, glancing across the room. “Q,” he murmurs. He hadn’t meant to conjure him just yet, but he’s not exactly upset to see him, either. Especially like this. Happy, and old. And, god, that’s more than he probably could have even hoped for from this spell. Exactly like his final memories of him from the life that never happened.Quentin grins; his smile lines are deep enough to hide a lifetime of laughter. It pulls at something in Eliot’s chest, the way the wrinkles and grey hair only seem to make Quentin all the more endearing. “You seem surprised to see me.”—Or, everyone’s an idiot, questing creatures are peculiar, and despite being idiots, they all deserve happy endings.





	Dancing in the Dark

 

“Hey, old man.”

Eliot smiles softly to himself, glancing across the room. “Q,” he murmurs. He hadn’t meant to conjure him just yet, but he’s not exactly upset to see him, either. Especially like this. Happy, and  _ old.  _ And, god, that’s more than he probably could have even hoped for from this spell. Exactly like his final memories of him from the life that never happened. 

Quentin grins; his smile lines are deep enough to hide a lifetime of laughter. It pulls at something in Eliot’s chest, the way the wrinkles and grey hair only seem to make Quentin all the more endearing. “You seem surprised to see me.” 

Eliot shakes his head, reaching out with one arm in an attempt to beckon Quentin closer. Quentin rolls his old eyes, and moves in without so much as a word. Eliot grins at him as he settles into the seat next to him on the couch. “Not surprised,” He murmurs, leaning over to pull Quentin into him. “Well. Maybe a little.” 

Quentin shrugs, lets Eliot manhandle him. “Want me to do that thing you like?” He asks, soft. His voice is hoarse, though. Scratchy and old. It still sends little twists of joy up Eliot’s spine.

“Which thing?”

Quentin pulls away, and Eliot can’t help the pout that forms in response, but then he’s being pushed and prodded, and forced to lay down with his head in Quentin’s lap. For about half a second, he’s tempted to repeat the question, but then Quentin’s hands are in his hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp. And— _ oh. _

Oh, that’s nice.

He glares halfheartedly up at Quentin. “That’s not even fair,” He murmurs, letting his eyes slowly fall shut, because yeah. Yeah, this is so  _ unfairly _ nice. Quentin’s fingers tangle in his hair, carefully weaving in and out of the curls as he massages at Eliot’s scalp.

“Can’t help that I know you so well,” Quentin replies, smug, as he scratches and curls his fingers, digging into the skin. 

“How old are you?” 

Quentin hums thoughtfully. “Did you forget my birthday again, El?”

“No,” Eliot murmurs, reaching up to blindly wrap his hand around Quentin’s wrist, just to feel him. “I just— I’m in a weird place right now. Can’t remember how old you are when you look like this.” He tilts his head back into Quentin’s lap to look up at him. The hand on Quentin’s wrist travels up to cup his chin; Quentin’s beard isn’t exactly scraggly, but it’s not soft either, where it tickles his palm. 

Quentin smiles at him, old eyes twinkling as he rolls them. “I’m sixty eight,” He says, pausing as Eliot tugs at his beard gently, “You brought home 68 different species of flowers from the market to celebrate. And I had an allergic reaction.” He wrinkles his nose, “It’s why the beards so short—” 

“ —because I panicked and shaved it off to help you breathe.” 

_ “Sheared, _ more like.”

Eliot laughs, shaking his head and letting his hand fall back down to his stomach. “Oh, you  _ are _ a crotchety old man.” The smile falls as Quentin massages his scalp, and yearning settles deep in his gut. “I miss you, you know.” 

“I’m right here.” 

“Not really.” He sighs, and moves to sit up, Quentin’s hands falling from his hair helplessly, as Eliot twists and sits on his haunches on the couch to  _ look _ at him. To just. Look. At what they could have had. He’d be lying if he said it wasn’t the whole point behind the spell. But it doesn’t make it any less of a shock how real it feels. To sit here, staring at the future that had been waiting for them. Right up until it wasn’t. 

 

 

_ “This is a terrible idea. You’ll never move on if you—”  _

_ “I’m not looking for a lecture, Bambi. I’m looking for help.”  _

_ She scoffs. “You’re asking me to trap you in your head like the monster did so you can live some fantasy there with a  _ memory  _ of Quentin. Do you not understand how fucking insane that is?”  _

_ “Do you not understand that I literally could not care less?” He looks at her, deadpan, and scoops the book off the table, flipping it shut violently and hugging it to his chest. “If you don’t help me, I’ll find someone who will. I’m sure 23 has nothing else to do. He’s got a history of not caring how his actions affect people. I’m sure he’d be  _ happy  _ to help.”  _

_ She stares at him for a beat, wild anger dancing behind her eyes, before it all but vanishes and she falls into the chair beside her and looks up at him helplessly. “I’m worried about you, El,” She says. And it almost tugs at his heart strings, the way her voice cracks and her whole facade washes away. But.  _

_ He squares his shoulders. “You know,” He mutters, tilting his chin down at her with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “You wouldn’t be so worried if you’d bothered caring about him before it was too late.” _

_ “You can’t keep  _ using  _ that against me.”  _

_ He shakes his head before turning on his heel and looking at the box on the ground, full of Quentin’s things. “You’d be surprised,” he bites, before clutching the book tight to his chest and walking out of the room.  _

 

 

“I love you,” He tells Quentin, swallowing. 

Quentin smiles, his face crinkling up with the motion of it, and Eliot’s breath hitches. It’s only been a few weeks, but he can’t help the longing that fills him up and clutches around his heart. Quentin’s stupidly innocent smiles, genuine and heartfilled and real. He’s nearly sixty and he still looks like a damn puppy when he smiles. “I know,” He says, reaching out and grabbing Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot’s gaze drops down to look at their hands as Quentin’s old, liver spotted thumb brushes over the back of his hand. He glances back up, over his wet eyelashes. “No, you don’t,” He breathes, leaning in and brushing his free hand against Quentin’s cheek. His thumb brushes along the side of his cheekbone. 

“Of course I do.” He squeezes Eliot’s hand. “You’re an idiot, but I know you love me.” 

A wet, little sound escapes Eliot’s throat without his permission. “No, you don’t,” he repeats, turning his palm up to weave his fingers through Quentin’s as he closes his eyes. “I told you we weren’t a good match. That we couldn’t work.” 

Quentin hums non committedly, and then Eliot feels a soft, warm hand cupping his own cheek. He leans into the touch as Quentin brushes aside the tears attempting to make a daring escape. “Eliot,” His crackly voice comes out stern, like he’s scolding a grandchild for ruining their dinner (right before offering them a second cookie). “I’ve never been lost when it comes to us. I’ve always known how difficult it is for you to.  _ Talk  _ about what you’re feeling. That doesn’t mean you didn’t  _ show  _ me.” 

  
  


_ “I hear you’re trying to trap yourself in your own head.”  _

_ Eliot doesn’t bother looking up as Kady enters the room, just turns the page in the book. “Not trap,” he mutters, skimming the page for what he’ll need for the spell. “Just . . . visit.”  She takes a breath, and he can practically feel the speech building in her lungs. He slams the book shut and turns to look at her. “Look. I don’t know who sent you, or what speech you’re going to give me to try and stop me, but I don’t want to hear it. So don’t waste your breath.”  _

_ She watches him for a moment before crossing her arms. “And what makes you think I’m going to  _ stop  _ you?”  _

_ He deflates. “Aren’t you?”  _

_ She shakes her head. “No.” _

_ “Why not?” _

_ “Because I lost Penny and I would have done the same thing if I’d known it was an option. And  _ I  _ didn’t spend fifty years with  _ him.” _ She shrugs a shoulder and drops her arms to her sides, moving further into the room, one slow step at a time. “I don’t need to  _ imagine  _ how badly you want to see Quentin again.” She nods down to the book, “The otter’s an asshole for not translating it for you. Or just. Telling you how to do it. But I can help.”  _

  
  
  


“Do you remember when I turned thirty?” 

Eliot sits back and rolls his eyes. Of course he remembers. It haunts his fucking dreams. “You’re not seriously going to use that against me.”

Quentin blinks innocent, before a little, rough laugh bubbles out and he pats his lap. “Lay back down. You look stressed.” Eliot looks at his lap dubiously for no more than five seconds, before he sighs dramatically and twists around to lie back down, head in Quentin’s lap. He looks up as Quentin smiles down at him, a softer sigh falling as fingers weave in through his hair. “And to be clear,” Quentin adds after a moment, nail scratching against Eliot’s scalp. “I don’t use it  _ against  _ you. It makes me  _ happy.” _

Eliot scoffs. “Q. I nearly killed you. You’ve used it against me to win arguments at least sixty times.” 

“I don’t know,” Quentin laughs, the smokey sound of it that comes with age filling up the room around them as one of his hands dips around to cup Eliot’s jaw fondly. “I think it’s more in the hundreds range.” 

“I hate you.” He freezes. Shifts up, eyes going wide as he shakes head. “No. Wait. I don’t mean—” 

“El.” 

The words die on his tongue, tears stinging at his eyes, and he scrambles to sit back up and climb off the couch. “This— jesus christ, what am I doing, Q?” He runs a hand over his face, palm digging into the space between his brown bones. “You’re dead, and I’m— I’m trying to relive that, but I’m terrified of everything I say or do.” He shakes his head again and turns around, his hand sliding up into his hair and tugging. “I shouldn’t have done this. Alice was right.” He groans. “I can’t believe I just  _ said  _ that.”

  
  
  


_ Alice walks in while they’re trying to translate the latest page. Kady thinks it’s some ancient form of Mandarin, Eliot’s still convinced it’s fucking gibberish, but that didn’t stop Kady from getting a dozen mandarin translation books, and a journal that looks older than fucking Brakebills with a bunch of nonsense in it. “I don’t get how I’m supposed to understand any of this,” Eliot mutters, sliding another Mandarin book away from himself with a look of dismay.  _

_ “The otter said if you figure it out you reap the rewards,” Kady replies without looking up, her face buried in a book like she actually understands what the fuck it says. “If you give up, you’ll never reap the rewards.”  _

_ Eliot scoffs. “If I keep  _ going  _ I’ll never reap the rewards.”  _

_ Alice clears her throat, and Eliot rolls his neck back, head flopping onto the seat of the couch. “If you’re not here to help . . .” he says, only mildly agitated. They’ve been getting along, it wouldn’t do to ruin it just when they’ve both lost Quentin. Friends fighting to feel okay is better than enemies fighting to be okay. Especially when he considers the fact that he doesn’t even know who Quentin would have chosen, if he’d survived, and had been given the choice. _

_ The little monster at the back of his head, the remnants of his fear and self doubt— not actually remnants, it’s his entire existence simply dulled down by scotch and pot— curl in at the thought. At the statement it pulls from his memories. He shudders, shaking the thought, the memory, the  _ ache  _ away, and turns to look at Alice— who looks about as unimpressed as he feels. “Yes, buzzkill?”  _

_ She blinks down at him, tilting her chin up and away as she crosses her arms. “Penny said you guys are trying Mandarin. I speak a little. I might be able to help.”  _

_ Out of his peripheral, Eliot sees Kady finally look up from her book and level Alice with a look. He imagines her lips are pursed the way they are whenever she’s contemplating trusting somebody. “How do we know you won’t try to keep us from figuring it out?”  _

_ “Because I let Q go into the mirror realm knowing he was a disaster. And . . . I. Guess I owe it to you,” Her gaze darts from Kady to Eliot. “Because it’s my fault. That you guys never got to say goodbye.” She looks down at the table in front of them, and Eliot follows her eyes to the book the otter gave him, lying innocently on the center of the table like it’s not hiding every secret Eliot’s spent three weeks desperately seeking out. “I know we have our differences, but. The otter gave  _ you  _ the book for a reason.”  _

_ He makes a face. It’s true. She’d sought the otter out first, and all it’d given her is a potion she’s yet to take that can help dull the pain. To be fair, the riddle that accompanied the book is about as much help as the potion. Which is to say, not helpful at fucking all. _

_ He sighs and lifts his head to look at her directly. “And that reason is?”  _

_ She sets her jaw and straightens out her shoulders. “Because you’re the only one who didn’t get the closure you needed. This is how you get the closure, right? That’s what your wish was.”  _

_ Truth is, he doesn’t know what his wish was. He’d been drunk on peppermint schnapps when Alice returned to the cottage fuming and cursing otters this way and that. Halfway down his second joint of the day while his fingers dipped in the special cookie jar with Josh’s special brownies, when he realized she was talking about a questing creature. _

_ Just sober enough to make the portal when everyone went to sleep, but definitely well on his way to perma-high when he dropped onto the forest floor in Fillory and well past that point when he caught the otter by a leg with his telekinesis and demanded his wish be granted. _

_ Next thing he knew he was in his bed in the cottage with a book tucked under his arm, and a note pinned to his shirt. And if that weren’t bad enough, the damn otter had sobered him up alongside whatever else it did to him, because the easy haze of can’t think-can’t feel-can’t hurt was gone and replaced by the stumbling, aching pain of the wound still healing in his gut, and the even, stabbing pain on the deeper wound in the crevice of his heart.         _

  
  
  


“Eliot—” 

“I’m sorry, Q,” Eliot says, biting down on his lip and twisting around to look at him. “I— this was supposed to help. But I look at you and I see what we could have had and I—” 

Quentin pushes up from the couch, slow and careful--mindful of his aging bones and moves across the room. The words die in Eliot’s head before they can even reach his tongue, and Quntin reaches out and grabs his hands, squeezing them. “It’s okay,” he breathes, tilting his head up so Eliot has no choice but to look him in the eyes. His breath smells of peaches, because of course it fucking does, and Eliot leans down to press his forehead to Quentin’s hairline. “You don’t need to apologize.” 

Eliot swallows audibly, nodding and letting his eyes flutter shut. “I miss you.” 

“I’m right here.” He squeezes Eliot’s hands before letting go and sliding his callous rough hands along the skin of Eliot’s forearms. “Whatever happened, I’m right here, Eliot. Just like I’ve always been.” He squeezed the back of Eliot’s elbow, and his hands continue their trek up Eliot’s arms, a feather light touch through the material of his shirt, until they can cup around the back of his shoulders. “Should I be worried about the door that just popped up behind you? Or do we ignore it?” 

“I don’t think I’m allowed to ignore it,” Eliot replies, quiet, before pulling away and sliding his own hand up to cup Quentin’s jaw again. He watches him for a moment; the way Quentin’s eyes dart back and forth between his, and then down to his lips and back up. A pattern that is increasingly familiar with each pass they make. He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to Quentin’s lips. His beard tickles at Eliot’s chin and nose but he can’t help but smile into it, body moving in closer of its own accord, until every bit of them that can touch  _ is  _ touching. He’s bent forward, hunching in, as his free hand comes up to cup the other side of Quentin’s jaw. 

Quentin’s fingers dig into the meat of his shoulders, and he returns the kiss, inhaling like he’s breathing him in just as deeply as Eliot is him. And then he pulls away, and smiles up at him; that same soft smile he’d given Eliot in the morning before breakfast, before either of them were ready to get out of bed. Before they’d ever imagined giving up on each other. “You gotta go.”

Eliot shakes his head; it’s just a barely-there movement. “I could stay.” 

“Could you actually?”

He wants to say yes. Yes, he can stay and never fucking leave again. To hell with the real world and their friends and quests and magic. They could live in physical kids cottage like this forever, and finally be happy together. But. “I don’t actually know.” 

“Go.” He pauses, swallowing. Eliot watches his adam's apple bob. “Will you be able to come back?” 

“Do you want me to?” 

He shrugs. “Aren’t I a figment of your imagination?”

“Yes. No.” Eliot shrugs, shaking his head, “I don’t actually know. Answer the question.” 

Quentin considers him for a moment. And then, sliding one hand down Eliot’s side to settle on his hip, says, “I’ll say what I said every time you left for the village.” Eliot’s heart pounds up against his rib cage as he stands up straight and looks down at him, biting down on his lip. “Don’t die. And don’t not come back.” 

Lump pulling at his throat, Eliot nods and presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll see you,” He breathes into the skin there, breath fanning out and rustling Quentin’s unbound hair. “I’ll come back. I’ll find a way. Even if you don’t remember because you are just a figment of my imagination. I— I’ll be back, Q.” He pulls away again and drags his hands down to grip Quentin’s hand again. “I’ll figure it out a way to come back. Even if there isn’t one.”

Quentin nods, eyes darting over Eliot’s shoulder, before squeezing his hand. “Go.” 

“I don’t think I’m brave enough.” 

“You wrestled an angry Fillorian wood creature to keep it from stealing our son in the middle of the night. You’re more than brave enough. Go.” Gently, Quentin pushed him back, until Eliot had no choice but for his feet to move beneath him. One step at a time, until his back pressed up against the wood. Quentin smiled up at him, the wisdom and kindness and love in his watery gaze, leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then stepped back, dropping his arms top his sides.

Eliot allows himself another moment to watch him, before swallowing down all the angst and fear that he knows is waiting for him on the other side of the door, and blindly reached for the handle, twisting it, and pushing the door open. 

He blinks, and he finds himself sitting on the floor of the livingroom, panting and disoriented, while Kady, sweaty and wide eyed, sits across from him. 

“Holy shit,” She breathes, moving to sit on her haunches, chest still heaving. “Holy  _ shit.”  _   
  



End file.
